


Irreversible

by Lady_Caryatid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Colonial America, Colonialism, Coming of Age, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical!Hetalia, Mentions of War, Mentions of genocide, little child of the west wind, mystic massacre, not exactly native america but just tagged as such, pequot nation, pequot war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Caryatid/pseuds/Lady_Caryatid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not murder, it's war," said England. "There's a big difference."</p><p>After witnessing England brutally raze and burn an Indian village with colonists, a young America struggles with the consequences of his relationship with his adopted brother–for his future, as well as for a past life to which he can never return. </p><p>Centered around the 1637 Mystic Massacre of the Pequot war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

How fast everything had caught alight! The fire hadn't even been part of the original plan, but how furious, how rapid the flames had leapt from the soldier's torch, spreading through the dry branches that formed the scattered huts of the village with the wind carrying the sparks further until there was not a single hut left that was not burning. It was if some terrible, divine hand was aiding them as they struck down the wailing villagers vainly attempting to scale the walls they had built to protect them from danger, but now only served to trap them inside the growing firestorm.

The shadows changed, flickering every second as more flames spread upward, the silhouettes of the men and women fleeing fell and became still as the dead and living alike were illuminated with the same fell light.

The attackers quickly made their way outside of the village walls as the fire raged and destroyed any of the Pequots remaining within. After they had gained enough distance between themselves and the blaze, Arthur Kirkland stood with the rest of the colonists and their Mohegan allies to witness the aftermath.

"Oh God," he murmured aloud. "It's done."

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder–it was the minister who had accompanied them and had given them a prayer and a blessing before they had attacked. "It certainly is, Arthur." He smiled, only his face visible in the orange glow. "You did what was right. Now you can go out and claim what is rightfully yours–the land and everything in it. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Arthur nodded silently, then winced as he noticed a small, stinging pain on the side of his head–he reached up and felt a thin, shallow–but definitely bleeding–cut running from his temple to the bottom of his chin that he had probably gotten while running through the thickets.

There was a sudden snapping and rustling sound to the side of the group. "Who's there?" the shout went up from the men at the front of the group, causing every man to wheel around, pointing their muskets towards the nearby underbrush. "Show yourself!"

The crunching of leaves and pine needles suddenly stopped at the command, startled into silence by the cold and hostile line of musket barrels leveled in its direction.

Slowly, with multiple hesitations and halts the face of a young child emerged into the firelight. Arthur immediately recognized him, and so did the rest of the men, who then lowered their muskets abruptly.

"Alfred!" Arthur called out to the child. "What are you doing all the way out here? I thought I told you to stay at home; this is no place for a boy!"

Alfred didn't respond, but stared fixedly in the direction of the inferno, a horrified expression gradually spreading over his face as he saw the fallen villagers' bodies, twisted and illuminated by the fell light, as if out of some illustrated nightmare.

"Alfred," Arthur repeated in a softer tone, putting his musket down and kneeling to his little brother's level. He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder, but the boy still refused to look at him, his attention still captivated by the grim scene before them.

"Leave him alone, Mr. Kirkland," one of the soldiers said. "He's in shock, a green lad like him–how the devil did he follow us out here?"

"If it's Arthur's brother, I'm not surprised," said another. "That little boy's capable of some rather great physical feats if I ever saw any."

"Come along, Al." Arthur took his brother's hand in his own and attempted to lead him in the direction of the group. "We really shouldn't tarry, and I can't leave you here. You shouldn't have followed us into the woods by yourself! It's not safe, so you'd better stay with us on the way back home, alright?"

"No..." Alfred's voice came out soft, fragile–but defiant nonetheless.

"We're going now, Alfred, and you must come with us." Arthur tried to be firm, but Alfred's unexpected presence made him uncomfortable, almost ashamed–and even more anxious to get away from the battleground as soon as possible. He clenched Alfred's hand harder and tried to yank him towards the group. "Let's go!"

"No!" Alfred wrenched his hand out of Arthur's grasp, finally turning away from the burning battlefield to face his brother, then glancing back at the flames, and then back again to Arthur. "What happened?" he demanded. "What have you done?"

Arthur stared intently into the darkness of the forest, trying to avoid the sight of the firestorm and the illuminated face of his brother and the ghostly disembodied faces of the soldiers behind him.

"Something irreversible."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America confronts England, causes slight vandalism, and promptly runs off.

"I had to do it." said Arthur, back at home with Alfred in the small but growing New England settlement. "It was necessary. They threatened us. No was no way to avoid it if we're to have any sort of successful future together. Alfred, would you just look at me."

Alfred reluctantly turned from the only window in the cabin, new, angry tears welling up in his eyes as he faced his adoptive brother.

"You killed them, Arthur," he said, softly but bitterly. "All of them. They trusted you, and you murdered them."

Arthur clenched his jaw. "It's not murder, it's war," he said stiffly. "There's a big difference."

"What's the difference? They're both horrible things that shouldn't exist!"

"Now you be silent in the presence of your betters!" Arthur stood up suddenly, startling his brother into silence. "How would you know about the proper way to do warfare? Just because you seem to have a strange affection for those ignorant _savages_ –" he pronounced the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth–"doesn't mean that you can let it jeopardize my– _our_ future!"

"But you–"

"You are too young, too naïve to be telling me what I should be doing! What do you know of war, of undying loyalty to a God, a cause and a crown? Do you think I do this for pleasure? I've been fighting wars ever since I was your age: some brief like this one, and some that have lasted for a century or more. It's the way the world is, Alfred, and you must learn to accept it."

"That's the way your world works! Well, maybe I don't want your world! Maybe I just want everything to stay the same as it was before you came and changed it all!" Alfred finished his retort, glaring defiantly up at Arthur before furiously heading for the door.

"Alfred! America! Stop this foolery and apologize! Alfred! Stop–" There was a loud, splintering crack as Alfred, in his rage, simply smashed through the wooden door of the cabin as he ran towards the woods.

"You little–Where do you think you're going?! Come back this bloody instant or I swear I'll–" He choked back a train of oaths and curses, realizing that the neighboring farmers were all staring at him.

After what seemed like a very long awkward pause, one of the farmers spoke up.

"So, uh, do you need help repairing your door, Mr. Kirkland?" He offered casually, as if he had not just seen an eight year-old boy storm through a solid wood door like a battering ram. Arthur smiled, and also tried to retain the illusion of normality.

"Yes, John, that would be very helpful."

As he and John worked at making a temporary makeshift covering to replace the broken door, he looked up from his work to see the neatly laid out farm plots of the village, leveled and plowed and encroaching upon the edges of the deep wilderness beyond. Not too long ago, Arthur thought, these orderly farms had once been part of that forest–just as untamed and new and frightening as what now lay west and beyond. Most of the land was still vast and seemingly endless in danger and mystery, but now it was less so, if only by a tiny bit. Alfred's words came back to him then. _I don't want your world_ , he had said.  _I wish everything could just stay the same as it was before._

 _What a childish wish,_  thought Arthur. It was too late for turning back, even if he'd wanted to. What had happened last night would never be undone, and if anything, it was only the beginning of many more similar nights to follow. He sighed as John finished helping him put the makeshift door in place.

"That should do for now," said John cheerfully. "It should hold up, unless that lad of yours decides to make a run for it again. Where did he go to, anyway?"

Arthur shrugged. "He used to go off on his own a lot when we were younger, but it's been a while since I've seen him this upset. Never mind though–he can take care of himself, and he can come back and apologize once he's worked off his rage."

"Well, it's getting dark, and since he ran off like that into the woods...are you sure you're not worried about him?"

"He'll be fine." Arthur thanked John and got back into the cabin, where he sat in silence in front of the fireplace for a long time.

_Just fine._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost in the woods, Alfred tries to remember.

Alfred didn't know how long or how far he had run, but run he had–smashing through the door in Arthur's cabin, his brother's angry voice echoing in his ears as he headed for the woods towards comfort and solitude. Everything around him had blurred then, but whether it was from the speed at which the world whipped past him as he ran away or from the tears that filled his eyes and left streams down his grimy face, he couldn't tell and didn't care. What he did know was that he had to get away from Arthur and the madness that was happening, that madness that now disturbed and perplexed him.

Alfred  _knew_  Arthur, or at least he thought he had. Arthur was kind and fair; he was always full of fantastic stories and funny songs to tell and sing. Arthur was the one who tucked him in at night with a fairy tale, who would always let Alfred sleep in his bed whenever he happened to have a bad dream. Of course, Arthur could also be grouchy and strict, and every so often would take to the bottle in times of stress or leisure, but he was overall a good person, someone that Alfred adored and admired.

Certainly not the type of person who would deliberately massacre and raze an entire Pequot village.

The blur slowly went away as his eyes dried, clearing his vision, and Alfred found himself on his hands and knees on the leafy forest floor, panting from his run. He got up and looked around. Had he tripped and fallen in his dazed state? At any rate, the shadows of the trees were long and he could just barely make out the red light of the setting sun peeping through the trunks on his right side. It was getting dark and very cold alarmingly fast, and he thought that even if he was lost, he may as well keep moving to stay warm. Brushing the dirt off his hands on his breeches, he ambled in no particular direction through the forest.

The woods felt strange to him, almost eerie, which disturbed him. He wasn't afraid of wild animals; ever since he could remember, his strength had matched that of any of the great beasts that roamed the vast expanses of the continent. Those beasts, the large and the small, had been his friends and family along with the local tribes and villages that had once been populous in this area. Before, there had always been someone in the forest to greet him–a bird or squirrel would acknowledge him, or else he'd run into some hunters or from one of the Mohegan or Algonquin tribes–the forests had always seemed occupied and full of life for him, never scary or frightening, as they were to Arthur. Alfred sighed, and walked faster as the sun and the temperature sank further, and as century-old memories resurfaced and reentered his consciousness at frightening speed.

How long had it been since he'd thought of them? He remembered floating gaily from tribe to tribe–even though they all had had different grudges and conflicts to fight with each other, they had all treated him more or less equally, accepting him as part of their clan for the duration of his stay there. Strangely, none of them had questioned or objected to the presence of a little pale, blond and blue-eyed boy living amongst them, and apart from a jarring sense of rootlessness he got from constantly wandering around, he had been fairly content and happy to spend his days in the seemingly limitless wilderness.

That all had been more than a hundred years ago. Now, as he walked hesitantly between the trees, the only sounds he could hear were the harsh crunch of twigs and leaves under his feet. This forest, which doubtlessly had once been purely Indian territory, seemed now empty and deserted compared to the faded image he kept in his mind of a place full of people and music and the sounds of life. Where had the people gone, and where on earth could he find them again? No, he already knew the answer to that–the people had either moved away or died of the strange, incurable illnesses the colonists had brought with them from their strange world. But what of the animals? They had already been hunted down into submission, and now hid themselves from him, no longer the friends and playmates of his childhood.

The child crouched down with his back against a tree trunk, shivering and trying not to cry. Why did everything have to change so much? He still loved Arthur intensely, even after witnessing the terrible deeds of the night before, and this paradox, this precariously balanced scale of interests teetered in his mind. How could someone he trusted and loved so much do something so terrible and brutal? How could he still trust and love someone like that? It made no sense to him, yet as the night went on and it got colder and colder, all he wanted to do was curl up next to Arthur by the fire and have him whisper to him another story, a nice story about how the good guy–the hero, that's what good guys were called–would be brave and chivalrous and would always defeat the monsters and evil men who were trying to do bad stuff, like kidnap princesses or eat innocent travelers. Alfred loved the stories because he knew what was going to happen, and never had to worry whether or not the hero was going to make it out of a tough situation or not. Stories were easy and simple; there was a hero and there was a bad guy that the hero needed to beat up, and that was that. He had always assumed that Arthur must be a "good guy." Did that mean that the Pequots had been the "bad guys?" Sure, they could be frighteningly fierce and warlike, but they certainly weren't bad bad. But if they were the "good guys," that made Arthur and the other English the "bad guys" since they killed them–and no matter how hard he tried, Alfred just couldn't equate his brother to the same level of those story time villains. Everything was broken, backwards, bent, and just plain mixed up, and the sheer complexity and brutality of it all overwhelmed him. How could it be that Arthur– _England_ –wasn't bothered by this? How could he live knowing that such tenuously balanced paradoxes existed? Of course, Arthur was a grown-up who knew much more about everything, but still...

He stuck his hands into his pockets to keep his fingers from going numb, and with some difficulty got up and started walking forward again. Whether or not he was losing himself deeper into the woods by doing so, he didn't know and didn't care. Looking ahead, there was something that looked like a clearing, where the trees were less dense and he could see faint moonlight shining on some indistinct objects that he couldn't make out. Slightly curious, he ventured forward until he reached the clearing.

The clearing was larger than he had thought it was at first, and he could see the overgrown remains of what had been a village–there was a large wooden frame of a longhouse that had bits of tattered bark that still still clung to it, and he could see several areas in the ground that had once been rows for planting. Doubtless the people who had lived here before had been wiped out by disease–a long time ago judging by the look of the place. Alfred stood stock-still at the edge of the clearing, his breath coming out in a cloud of vapor. The moonlight gave the still scene before him a ghostly tone, and he half-wanted to turn around and run right back into the darkness from where he had come from.

But if he was already here, how could he turn back now? He ventured into the middle of the clearing, carefully picking his way over what was left of the longhouse. Most of the material had been stripped away by time and scavengers, but he walked his way into the middle of it, sitting down on the cold ground and looking up at the sky through the break in the trees.

The heavens were mostly clear tonight, although smoky whispers of clouds still hung under the stars, the only visible reminders of last night's inferno that he could see from here. From his spot on the ground he leaned back and tried to study the stars he could see. Reaching deep into the pile of his buried memories, he managed to unearth names for the shapes made by the stars, names that had once been familiar to him centuries ago but now felt dusty and strange as he repeated them, quietly, to himself in that cold night. There were animals in the sky, he remembered, shaped by the pattern of the stars, and each had their own stories told of them. What had they been again?

As he dug deeper, overturning more hidden layers , more names and stories that the People had told him several times as an infant–he felt the strange sensation of falling faster and quicker–was it falling or flying?–The cold vanished, replaced by a sensation of warmth and softness and comfort all around him, and the stars he had been looking up at glowed brighter and brighter until they merged into a single white-hot disk of pure light in a field of light blue– away from what he could sense and see before him, he, blindly, reached back as deep and as far as he could remember.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur tries to not let his imagination get the better of him.

After fixing his door and retiring back to the relative comfort of the indoors, Arthur went to bed and tried to get some sleep for the long day ahead.

At least he  _tried_  to.

He lay in his cot, awake, waiting for Alfred's familiar light footsteps on the dirt floor to start. After a couple of hours, he began to get tense, uneasy–where the devil had Alfred gone to? He'd never stayed out this late; even when he used to run off as a toddler, Arthur could always count on his coming back quickly. Besides, he had never run away at night before, had he?

 _He's ridiculously strong for a boy his size and age,_  he repeated in his mind.  _If he wants to be a rude, insolent little prick, he can very well take care of himself until he decides to come back and apologize!_

Still–the night was unusually cold and chilly for May, Alfred had run away without a coat or hat or anything, and despite his own pride, Arthur began to feel concerned. He lay nervously in bed for another hour–or maybe it was five minutes, or ten, he couldn't tell–listening to his own tense breathing before getting up and hastily dressing.

He was already putting together his rifle and pack when he realized what he was intending to do. Should he sneak out now and look for Alfred by himself? No, that wouldn't do–he was horrible at navigating through the forest, and was bound to get even more lost than Alfred was at this point. That is, if Alfred was lost at all. Arthur felt a brief stab of worry as another possibility occurred to him–what if Alfred didn't intend to come back? Had he really been serious earlier that evening, when he had angrily declared "I don't want your world" before dashing off into the woods? Suppressing the panic that was quickly rising up inside him, he set off towards the nearest house, but stopped himself. If pursued, Alfred would definitely find a way to slip away into the wilderness and never return if a whole regiment of armed men were sent to scour the woods for him–he was very likely still feeling hostile to the soldiers for what had happened last night, and would probably not respond well to them.

_This is madness, pure madness!_

Arthur's feet steadily carried him, alone, all the way to the threshold of the forest with only a small lamp for illumination, while everything inside him seemed to be pulling him backwards to the relative safety of his "civilized" town. He tried to purge from his mind the unpleasant, frightening images of monsters lurking in the dark of the unknown land. Arthur had worked hard to tame and curtail his overly broad imagination after the Medieval ages, putting it to good use by inventing marvelous tales to tell Alfred at bedtime–the fairy and hero stories from long ago, as well as the moral fables in which the good, upright children were rewarded with cake and candy while the wicked children suffered cruel fates at the hands of various devils and monsters. It was one of Arthur's guilty pleasures, telling scary stories to his little brother–always after a particularly frightening tale, Al would be more submissive and well-behaved for a short time before reverting back to his usual gregarious and curious self.

How ironic that those same stories would be affecting him now. He stopped, only a few feet into the forest, staring far into the trees forming endless rows of teeth leading into a menacing black maw...

 _Stop it_ , he chided himself.

Taking a deep breath, and resisting the urge to take one last glance behind, he went forward into the dark.


	5. Little Child of the West Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a dream of the wide open prairie
> 
> I had a dream of the pale morning sky
> 
> I had a dream that we flew on golden wings
> 
> And we were the same
> 
> Just the same
> 
> You and I
> 
> Follow your heart, little child of the West Wind
> 
> Follow the voice that's calling you home
> 
> Follow your dreams, but always remember me
> 
> I am your brother
> 
> Under the sun.

" _Where did you come from, little one?" The old woman inquired. Her face was lined from many frowns and smiles, and hardened from the many times it had seen the sun. "Across the sea, from distant, strange worlds that are hidden from even the wisdom of our ancestors? What sort of messenger are you? Are you sent with good tidings, to bring peace and unity to our people? Or are you a herald of a different sort, to summon death and disorder to the land?_

_"For many days I have been feeling that great change is to come upon us, although for good or ill, in this life or our children's, that is not revealed to me. But I do know that whatever fate chooses to happen, you will be a part of it._

_"You will become great, powerful, my little blue-eyed child, that much is clear and this world will one day be yours to do with as you will–but whether that will mean destruction or new birth, I do not know, and that will be in your power. There will be much power, yes, and with power there will also be much pain–pain you will suffer yourself, and pain you will inflict upon others. That much is clear, my child . That is the way of the world, and shall be evermore until it is mended. But what is to happen to us, our lives, when you come of age? What will become of the sons and daughters of my grandchildren? It is not for an old woman like me to question the workings of fate, of nature, but please, I implore you now, when you are still so young and pure, full of wonder at the beauty and wideness of this waking world, that you will always remember this, your youth with us, the happiness that we can give you now, and when you become a man, at the height of your strength, do not cast these words of mine aside lightly and forget what it was like to be one of us–if only for a short time. As long as you remember us, all creatures here as well as ourselves will be your sisters and brothers under this sun–may you laugh and play freely while you can in the forests, plains, and deserts of the land, bathe in the lakes that are as clear and wide and blue as your two wide-open eyes, hungry for the multitude of curiosities the moist earth offers! If only you could stay this way, happy and free forever, but change is coming, and it will not be stopped. All boys must eventually become men._

_"Ah–you are still too young to understand such words, but as I whisper to you now so shall I remind you as long as I live–and after, too. Let this message reach you through the relentless stream of time, through the mouths of the people and family here, through the calling of the birds in the morning and the whistling of the wind going under and over every leaf and branch on the trees, and through the echoes of the ocean in the seashells–no matter where you came from before, this land is henceforth yours as well as ours, yours in which to live and love and explore all the wonders the land can offer, and because of this, this is my message for you, little herald– "_

_The woman's voice faded, grew softer, distorted, indistinct, and Alfred had to struggle harder to hear her._

_"Do not forget us, my child," she implored again, "Whatever you do, whoever you become...always remember..."_

Alfred's head ached as he strained to keep the dream, or vision, or memory or whatever it was intact. He could hardly discern what she was saying, but he got the uneasy, panicked feeling that the heartfelt message was of dire importance and urgency–a warning of some sort. As he looked up into her kind, browned, aged face, he thought that he knew her, or had known her once upon a time and long ago, but the flicker of recognition was weak and fragmentary.

_Who are you?_

He wanted to ask her more, wanted to reach out and touch her face in the fervent hope that she would become real, warm, solid, not just a half-faded memory pulled back from centuries ago.

" _Remember_ ,"

Her last word echoed loudly in his head, bouncing and reverberating from ear to ear

" _Remember_ ,"

When he was younger, Alfred had tried several times to knock a few stars from the sky by waving his tiny fists wildly in the air, unaware of the infinite space between himself and the heavens above. The same type of futile distance recurred now, as he raised his hand now towards the woman only to find that she was just as unreachable and distant as those constellations that only a couple centuries ago had guided the strangers from Europe to Alfred's continent.

"I," he said weakly at last, surprised that he could speak. "I...I think I've seen you before...you know me, but..." he stumbled over his words, frustrated at his inability to articulate what he was feeling.

She smiled again, softly, and to Alfred's horror began to gradually disappear, as if she was slowly being enveloped in some sort of fog, obscuring her from his view.

"Wait!" he managed to shout, and he reached out again to her, but it was too late. The kind, wrinkled face had vanished into the mist, with only her urgent plea imprinted in his mind. Panicking, he realized that maybe she wasn't the one who had faded into the fog, but that it had been him–he was the one who was lost, who was falling–as he waved his arms and legs, he could feel no ground–there was no upwards or downwards or sideways in this blankness. Had he fallen so deep into his own mind that he could never escape? He tried, vainly, to grab hold of what fragments were left of his distant memories, a deluge of centuries' worth of images, words, and sounds pouring through his mind like a sieve, overwhelming in their intensity as they left him forever.

Then cut into his mind a voice from the outside–clear and crisp in its intensity against a backdrop of blurry images and incoherent fading thoughts–

"Alfred–"

It was his name! Someone was calling for him, calling him back from this nebulous underworld, and calling him away from the fragments that he had been trying to vainly regather.

"Alfred, come back!"

Wait, a part of him said. I can't come to you! At least, not yet– I have to find–I have to gather back everything before it's lost–I can't lose it. I've lost so much already...

"Alfred, you idiot, wake up!"

Morning light flooded Al's vision as he opened his eyes, and even before he could blink it away he was aware that Arthur was there, sitting on the damp forest floor, grasping the boy tightly to his shoulder just as he used to when he was only a baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in the summary is "Brothers Under the Sun" by Bryan Adams, familiar to those of you who have watched Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmaron, whose soundtrack always reminds me of Little America...also for those of you who've read "A swiftly Tilting Planet" by Madeleine L'engle (of "A Wrinkle in Time" fame) might have caught some references here, but only slightly.


	6. The Pursuit of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred wakes up and makes an important decision.

"Oh God, please, Al, please–just wake up."

"I'm...awake." His mouth was dry, and his voice felt strange and out of use, as if he hadn't spoken for weeks. "I'm okay, Arthur. Really, I am."

Arthur jerked back suddenly and drew Alfred in front of him, holding him by the shoulders so that Al could finally get a good look at his brother's face. From the look of his brother's torn and battered clothes and skin, Alfred deduced that Arthur had stumbled through bush and briar, and branches, and from the dark circles around his eyes, had done so since either very late the last night or very early that morning. Looking closer, and to his utter shock, Al could see from the two grimy telltale trails down Arthur's face that his brother had been  _crying_.

"Dammit Alfred, do you know how long it took for me to find you here?" Arthur burst out, and his grip grew tighter. "And when I finally did, you were lying here of all places in the middle of this wretched, godforsaken place, cold as stone..." Arthur embraced his brother again, so hard that Al started to sputter for air.

"Um, Artie.." he choked out.

"Don't you dare pull a stunt like that on me  _ever again_." Al felt his brother's shoulders tremble as the embrace loosed. "Ever. Again. You understand me?"

Alfred nodded, and stiffly managed to get up off the cold ground. He glanced behind his brother, expecting to see him accompanied by another regiment of settlers sent to comb the forest for him, but there was no such army. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

Arthur chuckled nervously. "Still in bed, I think, except for the watchmen. They haven't noticed I'm gone yet. You're not the only one who knows how to sneak away."

Alfred stared at his brother in disbelief. "You mean–you came all this way–to me–by yourself?"

"Madness, I know. I waited, and when you didn't come back, I–" he stopped to draw back and wipe his grubby nose on his sleeve. "I was afraid you really were planning to leave us and go back to–to wherever you came from. You know, when we first met. Deep into the wilderness. I suppose I was the one who got lost, though." He laughed nervously again. "I must seem pretty pathetic to you, now, huh? I don't think I'll be able to trace my way back to town. Can I count on you?" He smiled sheepishly, non-threateningly, but Alfred still had one more question.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"You're not angry anymore, are you?"

Arthur shifted in place, digging his toes into the ground and staring at them like a guilty child.

"No," he said softly, nervously. "I can't say I am." He forced a shy, grimy smile."Are you?"

Pictures flickered at the back of Alfred's mind. Flames licking the frail wooden fortress around the Pequot village, maimed and twisted bodies lying in the dirt, the cruel line of muskets leveled towards him. Arthur towering over him, furious, indignant, terrible in the orange glow of the fire.

Now, as his brother faced him again, exhausted and vulnerable, dwarfed by the immensity and strength of the ancient woods, it occurred to Alfred that this time, he, not Arthur, was the one in charge. He, not Arthur, knew how to slip away quickly and quietly, how to find the hiding places of the animals, how to find the faint paths in the forest. Who was Arthur to tell him where to go, what to do?

Arthur's deep green eyes, full of sights of another land, distant and unreal to Alfred, silently implored him. _Don't leave me, Alfred. Please. Please don't be angry. Come back to me._

Alfred knew that if he wanted to, he could just run further away, out of Arthur's reach, deep into the secret places of the continent where no one would ever find him again, leaving Arthur to wander helplessly around in the woods calling his name. This was his world, had been his world ever since his birth–whenever that was–and here, he had that power to use if only he wanted to.

The prospect tempted him, thrilled him.

But he didn't want to.

"No." He managed in a hoarse whisper. "I'm not angry with you."

Arthur sighed, seeming to release all the pent-up tension and stress that had been building inside him ever since that fateful night, and he looked up into the morning light filtering through the leafy branches, as if expecting to find yet another response above his head. "I suppose we'd do well to get going. I trust you can lead the way, Al?"

Alfred did not respond, but turned away from his brother and surveyed the area once more. In the dappled sunlight, outlines blurred by the frayed bark, undergrowth, and fallen leaves, the presence of the former village seemed much more diminished and much less scary than they had seemed to him the night before. Leaving Arthur, he raised his small palm against the rough, worn ruins of what had once been a longhouse. He wondered what it had looked like when it had first been built, strong and fresh, clad in pale bark, doubtless once a thriving center of community. What kind of people had it harbored and sheltered during those harsh winters in the forest? What stories had been whispered around the fire pit at night, passed down by the old to the young ones, their wonderstruck eyes catching the dancing light of the red flames?

And when had they disappeared?

Glancing at the lush, overgrown wilderness around him with eyes as clear and blue as the frozen seas through which, unbeknownst to him, his ancient ancestors from the north had sailed to reach this continent, he thought of the soldiers with their metal helmets glinting in the cold sunlight, of their strange, powerful weapons, and of their tiny but rapidly growing settlements encroaching upon his coasts and forests, upon the rich old world that had adopted and nurtured him oceans away from the turmoil that was ravaging the eastern hemisphere, until the first ships had managed to conquer the waves, dropping anchor in the deep, green bays along the North American shore.

This was Alfred's world, yes. But for how much longer? Steadily he had watched the new villages grow and flourish, turning into towns and farms, creeping inland further and further despite the opposition of the people already living there–the ones that had not yet succumbed to the diseases or gunshots yet.

Alfred felt his brother's gaze weigh heavily upon him, waiting for a word of guidance. Without letting go of the beam, he turned to face him. He looked up into Arthur's grubby, scratched, smiling face, and thought of all the mysterious new things that Arthur could teach him–about his strange world across the sea, a new world that Alfred now realized was slowly but irreversibly rolling westward and increasing in strength.

Arthur held out his hand, waiting. For a moment Alfred hesitated, clinging tightly to the wooden frame, but finally he loosened his hold and buried his small palm in Arthur's firm grip, letting his brother gently pull him to his feet and away from the worn and fading ruins of the old world.

"Well then." said his brother, smiling slightly. "Let's go home."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the first Historical Hetalia fics I ever wrote and completed; rereading it now, it does feel more rough than I would like, but overall I'm still pretty happy with how it turned out. The "let's go home" line is a reference to Al's flashback in the "America's Storage Closet" episode, when he remarks on remembering how big England used to be compared to him. 
> 
> For the fic overall I just wanted to explore a point in America's life where he makes a conscious decision to follow in England's idea of what society/civilization should be like, with i guess tons of more foreshadowing for future events as well. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading!


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